


Just a Visit with the Man I Was

by Soquilii9



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2258973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soquilii9/pseuds/Soquilii9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on Leverage:  The Last Dam Job</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Visit with the Man I Was

  


Credit for the AWESOME banner goes to Rofire9!

Patrons were more or less stranded at Bailey’s Taproom one rainy December night in Portland, Oregon. Instead of the usual drizzle, a blowing wind and cold rain swept the city. The harsh weather concerned no one; it was Friday, past the dinner hour and there was plenty of beer on tap. For those who wanted conversation it was abundant; for those who didn’t, quiet corners were available.

Eliot Spencer had a small corner booth all to himself. As was his wont, he sat facing the bar, sipping his suds and observing humanity in all its diversity. People sat alone or grouped at tables, babbling, telling off-color jokes, munching pretzels and sampling the many different beers on tap. Occasionally one would break off from the herd, head out the door, open an umbrella and brave the elements for home, but most stayed for the cozy ambiance.

The door swung inward, bringing a gust of moist, cold air. The individual arriving was a tall, black man of about 40 hunched in his heavy jacket, with water dripping off close-cropped, nappy curls. The bartender considerately threw him a towel.

‘C’mon in. Have a seat, buddy.’

‘Yeah, man, pre-shate-fo-sho.’ The man mopped his hair and face, standing on the entrance mat as he did so to avoid tracking water all over the tile floor.

Eliot started. Only one person he'd ever known had said that distinctive, ebonic-y, run-together phrase. It had to be his old Army buddy, Leroy Wright. He stared at the figure. Fifteen; twenty years had a way of changing a man but he was sure. It was Leroy. Damn!

‘Hey, Magic,’ Eliot called softly.

The man peered in Eliot's direction. The dimly lit bar made it hard to see anything much less recognize anyone, but there was no mistaking that graveled voice. Leroy cast in his mind to recall the dude’s nickname back at Bragg…what was it?

‘Runt?!’

‘Yeah, man, it’s me,’ Eliot said with a laugh. He’d forgotten that damned nickname. The minute he showed up at the barracks the guys gathered around to shake his hand; he’d had to look up at every damned one of them. He was Runt from that day on. In their Special Forces unit, his skill at covert operations had earned Leroy the name of Black Magic.

Eliot left his table to greet his old friend. The two men met in a firm handshake followed by a crashing shoulder hug. Leroy looked down at Eliot. ‘Haven’t grown much, have you?’

‘Fuck off,’ said Eliot, goodnaturedly.

When they were seated, Eliot’s waitress hurried over.

‘Hey, Sweetheart, another of the same and whatever my friend wants; put it on my tab and staple another sheet of paper to it. I think we’ll be running up a long one tonight,’ Eliot said, grinning.

After the waitress left, Eliot stared at his friend for a long time, a lump as big as his fist in his throat.

‘What in hell're you doing in Portland? When was the last time I saw you, man? How’ve you been?!’

‘Hey, lemme get a drink before you start firing questions at me, Lieutenant! I got a few for you, too!’ Leroy mopped the towel across his shoulders and back, shivering despite his jacket.

‘You’ll warm up after a few cold beers,’ Eliot joked.

‘Eliot, you sorry son of a bitch. You dropped off the face of the fucking planet.’

‘And you didn’t? Huh. So, you here for work or pleasure?’

‘Workin’…at the container yard, man. Just got on this week.’

‘Port of Portland? What’re you, a longshoreman?’

’Am now.’ Leroy took a long drag off his beer the minute it arrived. ‘They hired some new guys last Tuesday, including me, to get Terminal 6 up and running after some idiots from Honduras went on strike. They didn’t have a labor dispute to begin with because ICTSI Oregon doesn’t employ them. What a mess.’

‘Heard about that. Damn dock’s been through nearly two years of crap; multiple lawsuits, slowdowns, skipped port calls, snarled freight, you name it. Wish you luck. Hey, you heard from anybody back at Bragg?’

‘Naw, man, it’s some kind o’miracle I ran into you. What’s it been, ten years?’

‘Ten, fifteen, who’s counting, but I remember those times like yesterday. We got into some hot shit back then, didn’t we?’

‘Damn straight. Remember Iraq in’03?’

‘Aw hell, yeah. Shock and awe, brother. Shock and awe.’

‘You got that right. So…Eliot…speaking of me being in Portland, how about you?’

‘Same thing. A job.’

‘Just…a job?'

'Yep. A good one this time.'

‘You married?’

‘Nope. You?’

‘Not for a long time. She took off. No kids, though. Hey, I thought you and Aimee got married.’

‘Nope.’

Leroy nodded, finished his first beer and signaled another. He remembered his old friend’s reticence, how sometimes it was like trying to twist rusty bolts with your fingers to get anything out of him. He let the subject drop. ‘How about this shit, now, running into you after all these years,’ he said. ‘Hey…now that I think about it…thanks for hauling my ass out of that mess and getting shot up for your trouble.’

‘Hell, you were the one holding the line. Huh. I remember that day. They were lobbing rocket grenades at us…we’d lost four men already...’

‘Tryin’ t’move troops out of that combat outpost.’

‘Yeah, man, you had the observation post near the ville and Iraqis were holed up in every damn building. They launched a full-out assault…’

‘I assaulted ’em right back with my trusty M60,’ Leroy grinned.

‘Damn sure did, until your ammo ran out.’

‘Fo-sho. I mean, I’m sittin’ there thinkin’ well, fuck it, this is it…all I got is this crumblin’ wall for protection…and I turn to my right and here comes Eliot, crawling my way, loaded for bear…’

‘Well, somebody had to save your ass. I’ll never forget…I handed you that ammo and you said pre-shate-fo-sho. And after all these years I hear that again when you walk in that door,’ Eliot laughed.

‘No kiddin’? Well, we made a damned good team. Countin’ down grenades to the last possible microsecond before we threw’em…’

‘That was fun.’

‘Wasn’t so fun you getting’ shot up going back.’

‘Yeah, but you nailed that son of a bitch!’

The two men clinked the long necks of their beer bottles together.

‘Hey, Runt, you remember…’ Leroy convulsed in suppressed laughter, ’the week before, that 12-gauge flashbang that just plopped out of the muzzle? Live round, man! We were kicking it around like a sick game of soccer. Somebody did a goal kick before it went off!’

‘Didn’t that dude turn out to be a professional player?!’ Eliot howled. ‘Hey…I got one for you. Them packages of pork rinds your dad sent you. Remember? Them hadjis loved ’em, man! Called’em puffy potato chips.’ Eliot mimicked an Iraqi accent: ‘Meestah, these deleecious! Amrika make good puffy potato cheeps! Damn right, sport, keep on chewin’. Made them Muslims eat pork.’

Leroy laughed so loud the other patrons went silent, looking at them. The boys hunkered down as their well-tipped but stern-faced waitress approached. She issued a warning: ‘Fellas, you gotta keep it down, okay?’ She set fresh bottles down and removed the empties. ‘Listen, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Randy’s cutting you off after this round. Awright?’

‘No, not awright, but we’ll manage,’ Leroy said, flashing brilliantly white teeth at her. ‘Won’t we, Runt?’

Eliot, suppressing raucous laughter, nodded. This was downtown Portland after all, not a soldier’s bar.

‘Guess we gotta behave ourselves,’ said Leroy. ‘Actin’ like schoolchildren here.’

Eliot shook his head. A memory stirred. ‘Remember them?’ he asked.

‘Who?’

‘The schoolchildren.’

‘Aw, yeah. I’d forgotten. Damn, Runt, why’d you have to bring that up…’

‘Hell, while we’re rememberin’ we might as well remember it all.’

‘Primary, or whatever they call it over there…shell landed right on it,’ said Leroy, rubbing his chin.

‘Yeah, but we saved a few. Took ’em down into the stone basement.

‘You were good with them kids, man…surprised you don’t have any of your own. That one little girl kept patting your face.’

Eliot grew somber. ‘They were all injured…we patched ’em up…’

‘You sang to ’em, remember?’

‘Yeah, some stupid kid song I used to know. Finally got ’em back to the base after the shellin’ stopped. Sometimes I wonder if they ever got a chance to grow up.’

‘Aw, don’t think like that, man…sure they did.’

Eliot leaned forward on the table. ‘Listen…Magic…how’ve you been since you got back?’

Leroy knew what Eliot meant. He sighed. ‘Same as you, I reckon. You know how it is. You don’t see or hear like you used to. They told me it changes your brain chemistry. You take in every detail of your environment. Hell, I could spot a dime in the street twenty yards away.’

‘Yeah, that’s about right,’ Eliot replied. ‘Spidey senses, courtesy of Iraq.’ He raised his arms in a stretch. ‘Tell you what, Magic…I’m goin’ to the head. Don’t let nobody get my last beer.’

‘Guard it with my life, man.’

Eliot grinned as he ambled toward the men’s room, only slightly swaying on his feet. After unloading the byproducts of at least half of the numerous beers he’d downed, he zipped up and went to one of the numerous sinks to wash his hands. The soft lighting of the tastefully decorated lavatory cast shadows along the walls. His reflection in the long mirror accosted him as would a stranger on a dark night.

Seeing Leroy again was at the same time a delight and a displeasure. He hadn’t seen any of those boys in a long, long time, the boys he always referred to as his brothers. He might not remember all their names but he knew their faces and their ranks. They belonged to his past, when he was a young, fresh-faced soldier. Filled with patriotic and righteous fervor, he’d been one of the best in boot camp and had been tapped for Special Forces.

Following orders, he had killed for his country. This was at the time, acceptable. After he left the service and became a hired assassin, it was not. He became someone he himself found difficult to live with day after day. He became the man he had once tried to describe to Nate Ford, preparing to kill Dubenich: 'You know a lot of things, Nate. You don’t know how this is going to change you,' he’d said.

Nate stated the obvious in a tone that made it sound like it was a case of getting dirty changing a tire: 'You handled it.'

'Well, you have no idea who I was before all this…started,’ he’d said. ‘That guy…kid…he had God in his heart and he had a flag on his shoulder…' Eliot continued staring into the mirror '…clean hands. And I ain’t seen him in the mirror in over ten years. And, believe me…I get up every morning looking for him…'

Maybe what he’d said had convinced Nate not to kill Dubenich. As it turned out, Nate took both Dubenich and Latimer out simultaneously, efficiently, better than Eliot himself could ever have done and his hands had stayed clean doing it.

Eliot splashed cold water on his face. Seeing Leroy brought it all back: was it possible he was ever that fresh-faced, gung-ho kid devoted to any cause but his own? Was he ever really that kid with God in his heart and a flag on his shoulder? Ten years wasn’t such a long time. The mirror told him its own story. Gray strands ran through his dark brown locks; his face was lined and scarred; many more scars were hidden beneath his clothes. Time was so damned linear. It kept moving inexorably forward with no concern for those who measured it. Eliot found himself wishing Hardison in all his geeky glory could actually reverse it.

The things he had done for Damien Moreau climbed out of the dark recesses of his mind, a burden he’d have to bear for the rest of his life. There was no going back. Was there ever redemption for a man who couldn’t forgive himself or forget what he’d done?

Eliot dried his hands, took a deep breath, and left the men’s room. After a little more conversation with his friend he’d call it a night. It had been good to see him but it was best to put distance between them. Not a good idea to get tight. Leroy would have accompany everything else Eliot had found necessary to let slide into the past and stay there. This was how he was able to live day to day and work with the team as he had for the past five years. Maybe someday when he was an old man losing his marbles the memories would be lost forever, never to surface again. Eliot looked forward to that day.

He returned to the table. Leroy seemed to be a bit worse for wear; he was no longer talkative and what he did say came out slurred. The bar grew quieter as time to close approached. The rain stopped.

The bartender knew Nate Ford and his associates, so when Nate came in the door for a nightcap, Randy pointed him in Eliot’s direction. Nate stepped over to Eliot’s table. The two ex-soldiers were draped across its top, lightly snoring.

‘Seriously?’

‘Looks like it, Nate. It’s been like Old Home Week for a couple of soldiers.’

‘You don’t say. OK, gimme one Irish, then I’ll haul him out of here.’

‘Agreed.’

Nate bolted the shot. Thus fortified, he went to Eliot’s table and roused him. ‘Eliot. Wake up. Who’s your friend?’

Eliot blearily looked up at Nate and back at his army buddy, snoring softly with his head and one arm resting on the table top. ‘Leroy…good to see you again, man. Take care,’ he said to the inert form. He laid a hand on Leroy's shoulder, shook off Nate’s helping hand and headed for the door. ‘Call him a cab, Randy, willya?’

‘You bet, Eliot. G’night.’

The streets were slick and shiny in the streetlights. The cold wind sharpened Eliot’s senses as he walked steadily to his car. He got in, fastened his belt and inserted the key into the ignition. Nate watched him move with his usual precision, certain that Eliot could drive home safely. Still, he couldn’t help asking, ’Are you all right, Eliot?’

‘Yeah, Nate. Just a visit with an old friend…and the man I used to be. See you in the morning.’

Nate watched as Eliot drove away into the night.

The End


End file.
